A Little Bit of Your Taste In My Mouth
by Radioheaded
Summary: Wilson has a scar on his arm. House wants to know why.
1. A little bit of you

The first time he touches you, it's filed away as an accident. Stacy has just left; you gave him a ride home. You sit with him for awhile on the couch, watching some random show that neither you nor he really pay attention to; you can't focus on the glib chirpings of the TV while you're trying to pretend everything is normal. Everything is ok. Everything is how it was two weeks ago (an eternity, when he was strong and fast and he laughed quickly, and it wasn't that hard, barking laugh that you hear now). So when his head hits your shoulder, you assume it's the Vicodin making him sleepy. But his breaths aren't deep; his muscles don't relax so you know he isn't asleep. But it's shrugged off. You know he needs comfort, needs solace but won't ask for it. It's nothing. Nothing you can't give.

You sleep on his couch years later, (you're running from your problems to Neverland, to live with the man who is forever a child) and he plays games with you. Steals your food, deletes your calls. You put up with it because House is House. You get even and he smiles up at you, watches as you leave him sprawled out on the hospital floor (and no one rushes to help him). You're almost asleep that night when you hear him creep towards you (at least, as well as a man with a wooden third leg _can _creep) and you keep your breath even, move your eyes. Pretend you're in REM sleep. It's convincing; he moves without hesitation. His fingers brush the couch and the noise is near your arm; it's thrown carelessly over your stomach. Then his fingers are on your arm and he's lightly running the tips over your skin, feeling the muscle beneath. He stops, moves a single finger over the scar on your forearm. It's a thin line, almost white against your skin. It starts near your elbow and extends almost to your wrist. His fingers trace over the length and meet your wrist; the air seems colder when his heat is taken away. You listen as he moves back to his room, and wonder why you're blushing slightly.

The next day goes by in a blur and you can't focus. Your thoughts revolve around him; he's in your head (whispers in your ear. Are you his next puzzle? Are you something more?). You tell some patients they're going to live, others that they'll die. You know you should, but you can't bring yourself to the level of caring you once had. You feel for your patients, can empathize with their situations, but aren't affected by them like you used to be. This should worry you, should scare you but you're too busy obsessing about a touch. _ Just a touch. Nothing more. _But that touch! It was a caress from a lover you didn't know you had; it was more personal than most of the sex you've had (yes, more so than all of your wives combined.) Because when you looked down at them panting under you, rolling their eyes back, calling your name, calling God, you knew you didn't love them. Liked them all as people, yes. Of course. But love? No. And then they felt it, and the sex stopped.

But _ithis . _This was new, uncharted and you're not sure you want it to be. The clock strikes seven and you're on the way to House's. You drive around the block a bit, crank up the radio and sing in the car. Have to get rid of energy that you didn't know you had until you got in the car and your stomach was in knots and your hands began shaking. And then you're in the hallway of House's building, wondering how the hell you got there (did you actually drive yourself?). You open the door and House is there and everything's normal but it's not. Nothing's normal anymore and your head aches from trying to figure out how to make it go back (if you call what yours and House's friendship is normal. Is this what a crazy person feels?).

House looks up at you as you sit down, (opposite end of the couch) Your jacket is off and you roll up your sleeves. Your scar glows in the dim light and you glance at it before looking at the TV. House is looking at you again, or more precisely, your arm.

"How'd that happen?" His voice tries not to betray the curiosity you know he feels.

"Nothing. Just a childhood accident." You're lying and he knows it.

"A childhood accident that left a perfectly straight, non-jagged line down your arm? I'm sure." House actually grabs you now, twisty your arm so he can peer down on the scar (your great mystery). "Aw, Jimmy. Teenage cutter? Was it the only way you could feel control?"

You look him dead in the eye. This is your story, your past and you know he'll take it from you, make it his joke. His ammunition. But you lick your lips and begin anyway because you know he won't leave you alone until the truth is told.

"I was thirteen. Erik, my best friend, was dying. We made a pact. He cut me, I cut him. He said this was how he'd stick around; every time I saw the scar I'd think of him. He died before it healed. He was right."

"Cancer?"

"Yeah." And you're looking at the TV, not thinking about how Erik gripped your hand as you held the knife, dug it into his skin until you reached the wrist. Watched the blood leak out. Yours was like a fountain; you avoided all veins and arteries, but god did it bleed. His was slow; it didn't really clot but it didn't really gush. You bandaged it for him, and then a week later he was in a box in the ground. You picked at the wound then, made it bleed and he was with you for a moment, beside you saying goodbye.

And then you were left with your stinging arm and stained shirt.

House brings you back to the present. He looks at you, just looks, and you know he's putting pieces together. But you're not a puzzle and you don't like being an inanimate object that's broken apart just to be put back together. You're on your feet then in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. House calls your name from the living room, but he calls you James, not Jimmy. Then he's with you and you want to throw the glass at him. You haven't talked about Erik in years, haven't thought about him.

"Yes. Erik is why I'm in oncology. I miss him every day and he's dead so go ahead. Be an ass. Call me sentimental; call me a wuss, a woman. Whatever. It doesn't matter, because he was my best friend." House opens his mouth and you think you see a gleam in his eye so you really try to shut him up.

"And you don't compare, because all you are is a watered-down version of a man who I'm using to keep my mind off my latest life catastrophe."

He moves closer to you. You don't know what's happening, how things have gotten so convoluted, so strange. But then you remember the start of this; why you're in this mood to begin with.

"Why did you touch me?" House looks at you, makes his eyes big and pretends to be confused. "Cut the shit, House. I was awake." He doesn't say anything at first, but moves even closer and you wonder what will happen if he hits you. You don't mind the pain, after all, it will only complete the relationship. He pains you in every other way; it's be nice to have something to show for it this time.

But when the blow doesn't come you look at him closely. There's some….look in his eyes that you haven't seen before. He's touching your arm again, tracing the scar and you're confused and tired and want to cry but you don't because you're a big boy, and big boys don't cry (Dad's voice in your ears), right Jimmy?

You're looking in his eyes and see that they've got flecks of green and for a moment you're looking at Erik. He's grown and beautiful and whole. And he smiles at you, puts his hand on your face and says you did well, he's proud of you and now it's time to let go. Then House is back and you're shuddering, hyperventilating over something that happened twenty-two years ago. You should be over it but right now it doesn't matter; it's overwhelming and it hurts and every failure you've ever had washes over you in a wave and you're sinking.

And there are still hands on your face but now they're House's and you're moving. You stop in the bedroom and he pushes you down, takes your shoes off and makes you lay. But you don't want to be alone and you're crying out to him wordlessly, a groan that startles even you. But now he's next to you, breathing in and out alive and well. He turns you and you can't think because his eyes are so intense, so close and so knowing. So you shut your eyes, block out the spotlights and then there's a pressure on your chest and mouth. His hand is on your heart and it beats into him, pushes blood through your body under him. And his lips are on yours, dry but warm. Thin. They fit in yours well because your lips are big and he massages them, licks them and he tastes like whiskey so when you swallow you feel like you're intoxicated. You feel like a dam has burst in you and you press into him, entwine yourself in him and hope you can block it out like you always do.

He keeps his hands above your waist until you move yours below his. He's not trying to take advantage; he wants this to be real maybe? Right now you don't care, you just want a release and you try to undo his belt but he stops you.

"Not tonight." You open your eyes to question him but he shushes you. "You're sad and lonely and you want me to take away the pain. But you need to deal with it, to look it head on and get over it. Because I want you. I don't want a shell of you, which is what you are now. So I'll wait."

And then he's back to kissing you and it feels good enough for now so you lose yourself, feel his tongue as it plays with yours. You stay like that with him until you're both tired and you fall asleep with him pressed close (you didn't think House spooned). When you wake up the night floods back and you feel like you've been on a bender. Your head aches and you're dizzy. House is still asleep but he wakes as you move. He kisses you even though you've both got horrible morning breath (House probably enjoys inflicting his on you). You turn on your back and he does too; your shoulders touch. His hand wraps around your wrist, where the scar ends.

"To Erik." He says, then gets up. "So. What's for breakfast?" He disappears around the corner.

You lay still for a moment. "To Erik," you say, then get up to join him.


	2. Laced with my doubt

You glide through the next day, and it's like you're moving through water. Everything's heavy, slow and your movements ripple around you. House is there and he's…different. He's not gentle (does he know how to be?), but he's not acerbic. He talks to you like you're a person and you wonder if he'll lose interest in you, now that he knows your history. What makes you tick (why you want so, so badly to be needed). You're worried that he'll reject you, push your hand away but he doesn't; you're amazed that you can reach out and touch his inner-wrist, feel the warm, smooth skin there (you wonder how it exists in someone who is all angles and rough, hard responses). You keep two fingers there, like you're feeling for his pulse and you are in a way, making sure he's alive, making sure this is real. His pulse is strong beneath your fingers and it tells you that you're not dreaming, you're not insane, this is happening (and he wants you). So you sit near him, look at him through your eyelashes and keep your hand on him until he pulls you in, splays his hand on your back and puts his lips to your neck. The area is sensitive and it sends little zings of electricity throughout your body and you almost start laughing because the feeling is so intense that it needs to escape your body, become real and tangible in the air around you (the air that's not enough, you're breathing fast bust still drowning).

A chuckle leaves your lips and as it reverberates into his hair his tongue hits your skin and he's tasting you, bringing you back into his mouth and you feel him smile, feel his lips stretch then place a goodbye kiss on your sticky skin. Then he's sitting next to you again, acting like this is normal, that this happens everyday so get used to it (and you think that you'd really, really like to get used to it). You move your hand to his face now and touch the skin there; it's smooth today and when you lean in he smells like soap. You kiss the corner of his mouth, the part that pulls up and makes the hard line of his lips melt into a smile. He closes his lips on yours and tries to open them with his tongue but you shake your head, push your tongue into his mouth and he's surprised at your dominance. He tastes like cinnamon and syrup, though he ate the pancakes you made him (and those you made for yourself) hours ago. And then you feel it, the stirrings inside that want House, that need him to touch you. You pull away for a moment to concentrate, to stop the feeling in its tracks but House looks down and then back up at you and smiles.

"Down, boy." He gets up and goes to the fridge, offers you a beer but you can't hear him because you've fled to the bathroom where you hit the wall with your fist. You're cursing your crotch now but it doesn't listen; it's standing at full attention and you need to take care of it. You feel like a teenager, unable to control your own hormones and then you hear House. He's sitting up against the door, tapping his cane idly and you're so mortified you could die, but then he speaks.

"Are you thinking about me?" You answer in your head _Of_ course I_'m thinking about you!_ And you want it to be him in here, laying next to you or on top of you, making you shudder and groan and then go blind from pleasure. Instead you just tell him to go away, that you'll be out in a few minutes.

"Just take care of it and come out," he says. "Or should I come in?" Oh, God you want him in there but you know he won't touch you until you fix yourself and who knows when that will be? But the knob's turning and then he's with you, leaning against the wall, looking at you as if to say, _Well, what are you waiting for_? So you pull your pants down and begin stroking but you close your eyes because this is so strange and unfamiliar (two days ago he was your best friend, now he watches you touch yourself) and he tells you to look at him, so you do. You lock his gaze and keep going and you can't keep quiet; you're calling out Greg even though you've always called him House, but he doesn't seem to mind. He watches on, hungrily almost and then you gasp and shudder and relax into a gelatinous pool of contentment. You stay still for a moment, don't want to get up and won't be able to for a few moments when you hear the sink running. Then you're wet (again) but this time it's water; House is cleaning you with a washcloth. He places a hand on your hip and you want him to stay there with you, to match you stroke for stroke, but he moves his hand and gets up. You hear the door shut behind him and are left with his fingerprints on your skin, which may as well have been burned there.

You pull yourself together (pull your pants up) and leave the bathroom (even though you kind of want to stay in there, hide away from him) House sits at the piano like nothing has happened—like he didn't just witness one of your most private moments. He scares the shit out of you sometimes; he has to know everything and you're not sure if there will be any of you left once he's explored everything he needs to see. But you push that thought away and sit down. Your hands don't know what to do with themselves so they bounce around on your knees. He moves one of his hands and covers yours; he's a parent correcting a child.

"You need to find a place," he says. You snatch your hands away. He wants you out. He's seen you at your most vulnerable (in more ways than one) and he doesn't want you, doesn't need you. You're up, collecting your possessions and your teeth are gritted because you don't want to say what you feel. You're in his bedroom, almost done getting your stuff when he comes up behind you and grabs your arms.

"You don't get it," he says, but you pull away.

"No, House. This time I really get it. I'm not needed or wanted; you've figured me out and now you're done. I'm one of your puzzles. Congratulations in making me think you wanted me; I really hope you enjoyed the show."

His eyes take on a hard look but he stays there, reaches out for you again and holds you in a death grip.

"I want you. But I'm not a rebound. So if you want this, you need to find a place. I won't sleep with you until then, because this isn't real until you get on your own feet."

"What do you mean?" You've relaxed in his arms but you're so confused; you're always wrong and it's so hard to keep up with him (what his injury takes away his mind more than makes up for).

"You're still with your wife. Until you leave, get a lawyer and actually divorce her, this isn't real. This is some fantasy vacation that you'll forget about, convince yourself it didn't exist."

You tell him you'll start looking for apartments tomorrow. The night moves quickly after that; House orders Chinese (you pay). Your mouth is full when he speaks, and you think he's planned it that way.

"Have you ever been in love, Wilson?" You swallow hard, choke a little and try to answer, but he doesn't leave you room to respond.

"I think you get off on people needing you, but you never let yourself love—or need—anyone else. I mean, that's why this friendship began. The Vicodin. And you've used me because I needed you—or at least, your signature. You've let me ruin at least two of your marriages; you've lost your job because of me, but because you know I need you, you stick around."

You want to yell, to disagree (you even want to hit him, make him bleed and see how much he needs you then), but you can't because you know it's true. You've never been in love. You don't know if it even exists. But there's this feeling in you, this faint tugging feeling that tells you something big is happening and if you mess it up now, you're done. There will be nothing left for you. So you cradle the feeling gently, try not to break it, and try to figure it out. House stares at you, waits for you, and then you see.

"You're everything I'm not." House is mean when he wants to be, doesn't care about societal norms. He's acerbic, brilliant, damaged. Broken. You're kind all the time, but only to respect the norms. You're gentle, you're smart. But you're broken too, even worse than House because at least he can admit his problems (he won't fix them, but he knows them better than anyone else). You fit together; you soften his angles and he sharpens yours. You afraid now, because you see how everything could be and you're afraid what you want will never come to pass.

"You get it now." He smiles at you and you're a new person.

"Why did you tell me all that now?" Your voice is low.

He leans back and that superior, smug look is on his face. It curls his lips and makes his eyes gleam (and you wish you had blue eyes because if you could possess one-tenth of the beauty he doesn't know he has, you would be satisfied.) "I got tired of waiting for you to figure it out." He takes the lo mein from your hand and loops it around his chopsticks. He slurps loudly and the noodles stick out of his mouth, wriggle like worms (your stomach twists at the image). You pick up a dumpling and take a bite. The texture is off-putting because your teeth sink into it, then snap through the dough and you can't help but imagine you're biting into flesh. It's cold, anyway.

When you're finished you clean up because you know he won't. You make your bed on the couch, but he stops you, asks you what you're doing. You resist the urge to say 'duh,' and tell him you're sleeping on the couch (you don't tell him you won't follow him to bed because you're not sure you can control yourself and you don't want to take another bathroom break in the middle of the night). But he eyes you knowingly and acquiesces without too much scoffing. You watch him walk away and feel that tugging again so you stop him and taste his lips one last time before trying to fall asleep on an impossibly uncomfortable couch. The task proves too difficult and you remain awake. You hear House's faint snoring (they're almost delicate, and you laugh at the thought of House being dainty) and you get up. You don't know why you want to watch him sleep, but you do so you creep closer. There's an empty glass on his nightstand and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to it. It probably assisted the Vicodin, and somehow you're relieved at this because you're pretty sure that he won't wake up to your snooping. His face is relaxed and the moonlight washes it out, making him look impossibly pale—almost otherworldly. You decide not to go back to the couch. You're careful enough not to wake him while you get in the bed, or at least you think so. When you move to pull the covers up he smiles, asks if the couch was uncomfortable and turns so he's on his back.

You shake your head. Somehow, you're already falling asleep.


	3. Words You Borrowed

You're awake before House the next morning; the cool light wakes you and for a moment you're suspended in between worlds. But your dreams fade away and your eyes open to see that House has turned away, rolled up on the other side of the bed in the blankets he took from you in the middle of the night. You can't believe how different he looks asleep and you think it has to do with his eyes; they're too wise, too knowing (things no one should know) for one lifetime. When his eyes are closed and he's stretched out, oblivious to the world, he looks younger. Happy, almost (and you want to touch him, kiss him so badly but you look away instead). You move one foot, then the other to the floor and slide off the bed. He doesn't hear you. You dress quickly, haphazardly and leave, but not before you look back and steal a glance of House in a state that you would almost describe as peaceful (you know him too well for that).

The drive is short and you realize you've never lived far away from House; 15 minutes at the most (your life has been built around his, and you've only just begun to understand the full extent, how deeply you've entrenched yourself in him). When you pull up the driveway is empty, not that you were expecting your ex-wife to be there; she leaves early for a long commute. You sit in the car for a moment when you realize she's become your past. The house is quiet, dark when you enter and there's a note on the fridge that has your name on it.

James,

I've gone to stay with my sister for a week. Thank you for agreeing to let me keep the house. I'm so, so sorry for what happened, but we both know that the marriage was falling apart. I'll send the papers to your lawyer; I hope you'll find the arrangement fair. I don't want or need anything, a clean break will suffice. Take care of yourself, James.

Elise

You touch the note, run your fingers over it lightly. The ink smears a little under your fingers; she never uses a ballpoint pen—always those ornate fountain pens that took forever to dry and left your hand streaked with ink from the letters you wrote (the pens don't work with lefties; just another way you were incongruous with her). You take your black fingertips back and move upstairs. The bedroom is neat, undisturbed. At first glance, everything is normal. Then you see that your clothes lay in a box on the floor. You've been cleared out, removed (to be replaced soon, most likely).

When you go to the bathroom and turn on the shower, your toiletries are lined up on the sink, like the front line of an army. You're not upset, really, just….amazed as how quickly you can be wiped out (erase and rewind). The shower still smells like her shampoo; the fragrance washes over you and for a moment she's with you, staring at you with those_ eyes. _The last time you looked at her, it was like this. She wore that expression, one of complete indifference (it made you miss the disappointment she used to show; at least then she cared) and she kissed your cheek goodbye. You left the house with her perfume in your nostrils; it clung to you and stayed in the car so you smelled her on the way home. Then she confessed and you fled to House.

The reverberation of the water on your skin and the wall is loud and constant and it pulls you from the memory of the woman who wants nothing more to do with you. Your hands have started to prune, though, so you get out and wrap a towel around your waist. God, everything smells like her. You feel wrong, like you shouldn't be there (you never should have been). You find the least-wrinkled clothes in the box and dress, annoyed at how unkempt you must look. You loop a tie around your neck and look around at the half-empty room that used to be part of your half-empty life.

_I'm barely alive. _ The realization that everything in your life has been done because it was what you were supposed to do hits you hard in the chest and you sit to avoid falling. You live, thrive in perceptions. People think you're a nice, well-adjusted man who has bad relationships. But that's not the truth, is it? The women that marry you are all good people; you could have been happy with them, could have had a life but instead drive them away with your desperation. House was right; he always is. And you sit there on the carpeted floor like a child who's just found out that the world it not the safe, beautiful place it's made out to be. All this time you thought you were trying to help House; he was letting you do it, letting you believe you were the responsible adult. How can he want you? You're barely a person; you function because of others' needs.

And it's always been that way, hasn't it? When your brother left, you were so _good _so careful not to upset your parents because they needed you to be a good boy. Don't cause trouble. Get good grades. Be a doctor. Get married. They got to brag, tell everyone how wonderful their son is. How modest, how hard-working (looking after all those cancer patients. How_ caring _. On paper, you're perfect.

You stand up and look into the mirror at your reflection. You finally see yourself (really see). It scares you a little, that you barely recognize the features you've had your entire life. You brush a hand through wet hair and decide you need to leave now. You're in your car again and you're blank for a moment; you don't know where to go. The hospital, you decide. You drive slowly, sing along to a song you haven't heard in years. The melody is almost upbeat but the words are sad; they're about longing and lost love and you think maybe suicide. The hospital looms in front of you; the parking lot is desolate. Your steps echo, sharp and quick in the chill morning air. The coat you wear is too thin for the air in which winter is looming; you clutch it closer to your body. The warm air of the clinic hits you and the muscles that clenched in the cold relax. It will be too warm for you soon, but right now it feels good. Comforting. No one speaks to you on the way to your office, for which you're grateful. The elevator opens for you and you get in alone; you're warped in the silver doors. Your features are a blur of flesh-toned metal.

The elevators open and you're in the hall. House's office comes into view; it's dark. You're not surprised; he's rarely up before ten. You slide your hand against the glass that bears his name and it's cool under your fingers. The door to your office is next and you slide in, drop your briefcase and collapse on the couch. Your eyes close; the heat envelops you and suddenly you're sleepy. It's that heavy sleep, the kind that pulls at you hard so you can't resist giving into its persuasion. But just as you're slipping away, dragged under by the current, a hand grips your shoulder. Your scream is loud but low and you slide away from the hand onto the floor, sprawled. House stands over you and he's grinning, but he's looking at you with this look that you can't place and for a moment you think it might be concern; but you brush that thought away.

"Went to your house?" He extends a hand to help you up but when you reach for it he holds up his cane as if to say 'Hello…cripple?" and tells you to get yourself up. So you do and you move towards your desk but he motions you toward the couch.

"Ex-wife's house." You say, and a smile flickers across his face, so quick you're not sure if it was there (but you hope it was because you've never seen it before and that means it was for you. Because of you).

"I'm calling my lawyer and I'm going to try to find an apartment today." He doesn't smile, nods instead and walks out the door, leaving you in the dark. You relax into the leather, splay your legs and arms and before your eyes are even closed you're asleep.

The sun is shining and it's warm; not summer warm, but that gentle, hesitant warmth that signals the end of winter. You're in a park, on a bench and runners are going by, each one waving as they pass. There's something off about them, though. They run in perfect sync; their steps, their breaths, the sound of shoes hitting the pavement. It's all the same. You try to get up but when you move there's this pain, this excruciating fire running down your leg. It's blinding and you feel like you're going to vomit and then you're falling, curling into a ball on the wet grass below. You try to rub the pain, make it go away but that only add fuel to the fire and there's this screaming, this animal screaming that echoes into the distance and now one of the runners is jogging towards you and you realize you're the one who's howling, nonsensically vocalizing your agony. Hands are on your body; they stroke your back, caress your face and massage your legs until the pain dissipates slightly, just enough for you to regain some kind of mental orientation. You try to sit up but the hands keep you down, whisper soothingly and tell you to relax. Give it time. You accept this and stay down and slowly you're rocked into comfort. You turn to see who's helping you, who your savior is and you see blue eyes, a narrow face. A long, healthy body.

"Why'd you take it?" He's touching your forehead, feeling for a fever.

"Because I can't bear letting you keep it," You're saying. You don't know what it means, or even what he's asking about but it comes out automatically and when it does, you know it's the right answer. The pain is gone now, and he pulls you up to the bench. Slips his hand around yours and squeezes.

"Don't try so hard. Just….let go." You nod at his words, lean back into the bench. His free hand moves up to your hair and his eyes are slivers now; his hand moves in front of your eyes and he tries to hide it but you see that it's covered in blood. You try to ask what's going on, what's happening, but you're so tired. You're listening to his advice; you're not trying. You're letting yourself slip away without a fight. As you drift, you hear your name being called. But it's not House's voice; it's your brother's. He's calling, begging you to stay but it feels so good to just disappear.

In reality, House_ is t_he one calling your name. He doesn't touch you, lets you wake up in stages, clinging to his voice. It carries you from sleep to reality and when you open your eyes, he's sitting at your desk.

"I dreamt about you." The words are out before you're able to think clearly. House cackles at you, tells you how whipped you are, says this must be a record for him. But then he looks at you, seriously.

"Trying to find apartments yet?" You shake your head, tell him you've actually got to be conscious to look for a place to live.

"Well, I'd get on that. If you ever want to get laid, that is." Then he's gone again, but not before kissing you so hard you're left breathless. You sigh, sign onto your computer, and begin poring over Craigslist.


	4. In My Sorrow

**  
**

"There are no guarantees in life." You say the words without really meaning to and they echo in your empty new apartment. They're not your words, not even your thought; a patient said them today, her eyes filled, gazing at you. Accepting the inevitable. But you take them now, turn them over in your mouth and let their truth reverberate through you. You stretch, begin to get up and your back twinges, yells at you for crouching on the hard floor. But it's ok because you're happy for a change; though there are no guarantees, life has granted you joy and you'll take it (because you can't know what happens next, you hold onto the present for dear life). So you get up to leave, looking back at your new independence. Then you're off to the only place you want to be.

House doesn't hear you when you walk in; his back is to you because he's perched on the coffee table, strumming his guitar loudly. It's some melancholy song you know but can't place, and you pause, just listening. You don't want to interrupt him, partly because the melody is beautiful, but also because he's there in front of you with no barriers; you've caught him in an introspective moment. He hasn't had time to put up walls, and you hate to see this pass, hate to watch it fade, but you move quietly back to the door and close it loudly. Without turning around he greets you, tells you he there's pizza if you want it (you're hungry…but not for pizza).

You shake your head, then realize he can't actually see you so you cross into the kitchen, open the fridge and get to get a beer. Tendrils of cool air curl around your face and you breathe out, the vapor curling around your mouth and disappearing into the warmer air above. You look at House, begin to ask him if he wants a beer, but the words get lost on the way out; House hasn't stopped playing, but he's looking at you. Watching your movements, like you had been, but you've caught him. He doesn't look away, doesn't drop his gaze apologetically (it _is_ House); instead stares boldly at you, slides his gaze up and down your body and you flush.

"I got an apartment," you offer. It falls to the floor and you wait for House to pick it up, examine it (figure out what you really mean). Time slows down as you watch him nod, then shrug off his guitar; it ends up on the couch with a muffled twang, and then he's in front of you. Close. He stands there a moment, millimeters away from your lips; he's leaning on the fridge door that separates your bodies and you can feel his weight pressing on you indirectly so you move the door away, close the space between and force him to press into you fully. His eyes are laughing and you're smiling back, amazed he would let you hold him up.

But the moment of ridiculousness passes and then reality sets in and you feel the heat of him on your body and his lips are on yours. Time resets and you're moving fast now, scrambling to undress yourself (and helping him along the way) and you're being pulled toward the bedroom. His cane is nowhere to be found so he uses you, shifts until you're in front of him so he can rest his weight on your shoulder (he's using you a crutch; like he has as long as you've known each other). You move slowly, allow him to keep up until you're in the bedroom.

"I thought you were going to wait until I wasn't such a mess," you say, turning to look at him. He presses close, pushes you on the bed and leans toward your ear.

"I'm not that patient," he says, and you shudder because his lips are on your skin, sucking, tasting, making their way down your jaw. "Besides," he stops, breaks away from your jaw, looks up at you gravely. "I feel you're making excellent progress toward recovery." You roll your eyes, move your hands to his biceps to pull him closer but he stops you, puts a hand over your eyes, tells you to keep them closed. You listen, and the hand is removed from your eyes. It drops to your stomach, where the fingers trace the skin of your hip. You feel House's stubble on your chin and then his tongue on your mouth; he licks your lips, then pushes his air-chilled tongue into your warm mouth. You feel him leech away your warmth (somehow, even when he gives, he takes), but then you're left with air; his lips have moved down to your neck. He nips, sucks and licks his way down your body, occasionally pausing, blowing on your slick skin and you groan, press yourself even closer to him. Beg him to continue.

And then a hand reaches down and fingers trail lightly over your straining erection. You gasp, begin to open your eyes but House sees this and orders them shut. They stay that way as he lowers himself carefully, brings you into his mouth and slides his tongue around you in such a way that your toes curl; sensations are running through your body and you want it to last forever. House continues, watches as you writhe in pleasure, calling out his name, along with God. His lips move quickly now; up and down your length and then you're pushed over the edge into a place where no physical forms exist; it's all sensation, all electricity and twitching and movement. When you finally surface, regain consciousness enough to open your eyes and look at House, he's smiling at you, and you tell him it's his turn.

But you don't make him close his eyes. Instead you tell him to look at you, to keep eye contact. You want to watch him, see his pupils expand and contract while you manipulate his body, control how good he feels. Make him forget his pain for a moment. So you keep your eyes open when you kiss him, and though your vision is skewed, you're seeing him and touching him, and you know it's real. You follow his steps, kissing him lower and lower until you reach the area that wipes the smirk off his face, twisting his lips into a moan of pleasure instead. You ask him if he likes it, if it feels good and he nods, throws his head back and closes his eyes. Tells you wordlessly that it's amazing. But you stop, take your hands and mouth away and his eyes snap open.

"You're quick," you say, and trace your fingers up his legs, digging your nails in a little. There may be marks later, but it feels good _now_. You touch him first, stroking him as you would yourself, mixing quick and slow tempos. He keeps his eyes on you now, watching you with eyes that are drunk on sensation. You take him into your mouth then; as you move up and down your length you catch a vein and feel his pulse. It moves quickly underneath your mouth, quickens as you do. House's entire body beats to the time of that powerful drum, the pace quickening as he gets closer to release. And then he's gone, lost under a current of bliss that you gave him. You get up when the current ends, when he's got nothing left to give, and crawl next to him. His eyes open and he turns, looks into your eyes and tells you that even though you're the most needy, emotional man on the planet, that he might actually like you.

You sift through his words, finally finding the sentiment under layers of sarcasm. You tell him it's ok, that you're surprised the love of your life is an old man who has more hair on his nether regions than on his head. For a moment you expect to get smacked, but he just laughs, pulls you closer. You're sweaty, so is he, but it doesn't matter because you're where you belong, so you relax, breath him in and feel the world become a little hazy; soften around the edges. As sleep overtakes you, you find your lips close to his shoulder. You kiss there softly, move your head a little to be comfortable, and whisper a goodnight to his skin. He doesn't fall asleep right away and he watches you, watches your muscles relax. His breaths match yours and he lets go slowly, falling asleep with you in his arms.

When you wake up, he'll still be asleep. You'll look at him, watch him as he watched you, and wonder for a moment how a man incapable of rescuing himself could save you from yourself.


End file.
